


now i want (the things you never said)

by bygoneboy



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Codependency, Comfort/Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Miscommunication, My First Work in This Fandom, Sexual Content, Unhealthy Relationships, don't expect this to be cute, if you're reading kylux you probably already know what you're getting into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-04
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-05-31 02:55:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6452680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ren has made a bad habit out of speaking wordlessly. hux finds that some things are are easier to say if you never say them at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: a story about unhealthy relationships and Serious Daddy Issues by someone with Serious Daddy Issues and a history of unhealthy relationships
> 
> i think i’ve been waiting to have a reason to write something along these lines for a while

Hux's hatred for Kylo Ren is a dull ache, flickering, ember-red. The Knight’s tantrums, his over-boiling temper, his lack of control, his failures, endless— within the first few weeks of their acquaintance it had become clear that they would never manage an amiable partnership. In the meantime, they'd discovered common ground in quick, carnal sex.  
 

He had been surprised— and begrudgingly delighted— to find that Ren fucks the same way he fights. Sloppy, tactless. He does whatever Hux asks of him, in the dark of the general’s close-walled quarters. Whatever it is. _On your knees, now. Hands off. Turn over. Look at me,_ and Ren obeys.  
  


It had seemed strange, until he had remembered that independent thought has never been one of the Knight’s strongest suits; to Hux’s disdain, he has always submitted to orders. But whether it is in his bed, on the bridge— it makes no difference.  
  


Ren gets under his skin. In his head.  
 

In his _head.  
_  

He knows little of Ren’s bizarre religion but he is not so ignorant to deny its existence, not after seeing the bruised work of the invisible fingers that grip the throats of the officers who disappoint. Certainly not after hearing Ren gloat over the way that he rips apart the minds of the Resistance fighters they take hostage, cutting mercilessly through their thoughts the way his lightsaber slices through flesh.  
 

To his surprise—  
 

Ren’s voice in his head has never felt anything like torture.  
 

Distantly terrifying, yes, in the beginning. A heady feeling of standing at the very rim of a thousand-foot-high edge, and wanting, distantly, to jump. It has always been far from desirable, of course, as Ren’s presence generally is. But he finds it haunting the corners of his conscious, the ghosting touch of Ren’s mind melting against his own.  
  


“What’s the difference?” asks Hux abruptly, his only greeting as Ren sweeps onto the control deck— late, most likely on purpose, armed with the petty knowledge that those few minutes of tardiness will irk him. “Fundamentally, I mean— what’s the difference between the Light and your Dark?”  
 

Ren goes very still, his face hidden behind his pointless behemoth of a mask. He seems to assume that he is being mocked; his voice, even distorted, is cautious, and Hux gets the unnerving sensation that he is being searched, his intentions picked apart to expose the ridicule that Ren no doubt expects. “They are opposites. Most would say it’s the dichotomy between good and evil.”  
 

“Yes, well,” says Hux. “I’m not asking _most_ people, am I.”  
 

He can see Ren’s pride swell in the embarrassingly obvious lift of his shoulders, at that. “The Dark is a Force of freedom,” he continues, more surely now, crossing his arms and turning out toward the deck. “The Jedi are constantly afraid of what they are capable of. They chain themselves to compassion. They allowed themselves to be ruled by emotion.”  
 

Hux thinks of every saber-shattered console he has had to replace since the Knight’s arrival, and snorts. “So do you.”  
 

“I use my anger,” Ren replies, without rising to the bait. “It makes me stronger.”  
 

“Does it?”  
 

“Yes,” Ren says.  
 

Hux wonders if he believes that.  
 

“Yes,” Ren says again, more sharply, looming toward him. “Hux. If you had known the weakness in— who I once was. The things that I endured, to break him, if you knew—”  
 

But Hux, of course, does not. Because he can’t read Ren’s mind the way that Ren can read his, no matter how often he has hungered to see through him, to unmake him, remake him.  
 

With Ren, those two things seem, so often, to collide.  
 

“The price of this power,” says Ren, “is worth it. It must be. Where I was caged, I have become limitless. There is nothing stopping me, anymore, from taking what I want, who I want.”  
 

 _And who do you want?  
_  

The question is desperate and torn. It strikes in Hux’s mind like a gut-punch and once the thought is there, he is powerless to take it back. He turns and grips at the edges of the panel in front of him, unsure whether he is hoping for an answer or not. It’s possible, in any case, that Ren hasn’t been listening—  
 

 _I’m always listening,_ says Ren. _Always, to you.  
_  

“Stop it,” Hux snaps, gritting his teeth at the hot thrill that runs up his spine, and snatching up the pile of reports in front of him. “Go haunt someone else, I have work to do.”  
 

The Knight hesitates and Hux imagines ripping that ugly mask from his peculiar, lopsided face, to expose his— whatever expression is it that he is looking at Hux with, beneath the apathy of his metal frame. But a moment more and Ren pulls from the general’s side, and saunters away without another word.  
 

Hux sighs, burying himself in the briefings. Offship reports, conformations of things he’s already speculated. Their preparations are on-schedule. Nothing pressing catches his attention. He only manages a few pages before the words are running together on the page and his thoughts drift elsewhere, too quickly.  
 

After he had left home the Academy had been quick to pick up where his father had left off, teaching the complicated barriers he would need to fortify his conscious. Onboard, with the eyes of his crew upon him, Hux has always been careful— not once has he let emotion slip in front of his officers. But up against someone so chaotic, so unbalanced, a blazing inferno of a man—  
 

How transparent is he, he wonders, to Ren? How clear are his thoughts? His desires?  
 

And how does his Force-magic work? Is it very much like a transmission, flowing both ways with only one comm? If Hux were to reach out to him—  
 

After a foolish, floundering pause of indecision, he wets his lips, and casts his mind out, not sure what he’s expecting.  
 

 _Ren,_ he says, casually.  
 

And Kylo answers, instantly, _Hux?  
_  

Hux flinches, curses something violent and startles so bad that he upsets the stack of datapads in his lap; his neatly filed reports go flying, scattering across the floor in cluttered chaos, and he grips at the armrests of his chair, his heart thudding, fast, out of rhythm.  
 

 _Fuck,_ he manages to stammer out, when he finds his words. His voice sounds small and feeble, inside his own head. _Ren. Ren? How the hell, I didn’t think, can you—?  
_  

 _Stop shouting,_ he hears Ren say, his tone odd, a mess of poorly hidden exasperation and monotony. _What did you wish to discuss, General?  
_  

Hux flushes. _Nothing,_ he explains, trying, vainly, to calm his racing pulse. _I just— I wondered, if you would hear, if I—  
_  

A wave of astonished amusement crashes over him, and he realizes, with a start, that it’s not his but _Ren’s,_ tucked inside Hux’s own mind. The laughter that follows is awkward and unpracticed, an odd kind of rough, startled guffaw.  
 

 _I apologize for bothering you,_ snaps Hux, the tips of his ears burning. _I’ll see you on the bridge—  
_  

 _What about you?_ asks Ren, unexpectedly, the laughter still in his voice, and his voice still in Hux’s head. _Who do you want, General?  
_  

Fury sparks, spikes. Hux snarls, pushing back from the console, screeching to his feet. “Fuck you,” he barks, out loud, to the emptiness of the room, _“Fuck_ you—”  
 

A half hour later they are both twisted in Ren’s bedsheets, Ren bent on his hands and knees in front of him, flushed and ungainly.  
 

 _Hux,_ says Ren. His ass slides up against the cradle of Hux’s hips, Hux’s hands on his waist, _Oh hells, please, Hux—  
_  

His words are breathless, stammered, even unvoiced, and when their minds meet it feels like the only pure intimacy Hux has had in two decades. It feels like the alien understanding of company after years of being alone. It feels like trust. A safe port, in the storm they’ve created. Sanctuary.  
 

“Stop it,” Hux pants, thrusting rough against him, fingers digging into Ren’s scalp. “Get out of there, now, I hate it.”  
 

It’s not true. He’s lying, Ren must know that.  
 

Ren closes his eyes and presses his forehead to the mattress and surrenders, all the same.  
 

…  
 

Hux wonders sometimes what his father would say, if he were still alive. Fraternization was something he had never taken lightly, in his time serving; it’s more likely than not that he would disapprove. He wouldn’t understand what Hux has established, in bedding an ally. He wouldn’t see the purpose in tying the reins to someone so impossibly destructive.  
  


But he had never known Ren.  
 

And honestly— he hadn’t known Hux, either.  
 

The way that they orbit each other is chaotic and cruel but when they come together—  
 

It had been so easy, to trap the Knight under his thumb. Perhaps he can’t read Ren’s mind, but he has been reading people for years— he had known the pressure between them would have to break. When it did it had detonated something supernovic inside of him, and something wretched within Ren. The first time Hux put his hands on his bare skin the surge of Ren’s anger had swelled, then softened; he had trembled and jerked beneath Hux’s mouth and even as Hux had kissed him hard enough to remind him of who they were, he had felt something give.  
 

Gods know how long Ren had gone untouched, in his years of solitude, serving the Supreme Leader.  
 

Equivalently, Hux has been— quite terribly alone. For a long time.  
 

 _Why do you suppose we do the things we do?  
_  

In the pitch-black of his rooms Hux laughs, pulling his hands through Ren’s hair, Ren’s head between his legs. They had been arguing, furiously, over the concluded date of the Starkiller’s debut— or he had thought that they had been. Somewhere along the line Hux had tugged Ren to the edge of his mattress, and Ren had pressed his lips against the inside of Hux’s thigh.  
 

The curve of his body is set hard against the gentle question he sets in Hux’s mind, clambering gracelessly up to kiss him. Hux kisses back, tastes himself, shivers.  
 

“Use your words,” says Hux. “Out loud.”  
 

“Answer the question, _”_ retorts Ren, sullenly, his hair in disarray, his voice wrecked.  
 

Hux presses hard against his throat and Ren tips his head back obediently, to let Hux mouth along his jaw. “I suppose someone has to,” Hux says, lips against his skin. “I hardly mind.”  
 

 _Nothing you’ve done haunts you?_ Ren asks, in his damn head again. His eyes are closed. _Nothing, after all that’s been asked of you?  
_  

Hux bites sharply into the softness of Ren’s throat.  
 

“Nothing,” he says. “I was born for this. Weren’t you?”  
 

...

 

In Hux’s dreams cold gray faces stare up at him, from the thin black ice beneath his feet. Boys he killed in Academy. Officers he had taken care of, not by his hand directly. There are flames in their eyes, burning him alive, and although fear stabs at his heart, he cannot manage to feel regret.  
  


The ice breaks. They lunge for him with his father’s hands.  
 

He cries with a voice that is too young to be his.  
 

When he wakes, chest heaving and face shamefully wet, Ren reaches out, and strokes his cheek, and says nothing.  
 

Not even in his head.   
 

… 

 

“Do you love me?” asks Hux.  
  


He doesn’t mean to but it happens, when he’s distracted, things slip out. Things like _please_ and _oh gods like that just like that_ and Ren’s name, over and over, slurred like a seedy Nar Shaddaan harlot. And settled in Ren’s lap, his arms loped around Ren’s neck, fucking himself on Ren’s cock with his pants somewhere near the door and his jacket still hanging off his bony shoulders— he is sufficiently distracted enough for the question to manage to find its way out of his mouth.  
 

He doesn’t really expect an answer— Ren has an ongoing habit of choosing to ignore the things he says, anyway— but then Ren’s fingers are cinching at his waist, forcing him still, and Hux groans a little in the back of his throat, regret already bitter in his mouth.  
 

“What,” Ren says.  
 

“Oh— nevermind.” Hux breathes out, eyes half-closed as he tries to rock his hips; he can’t satisfy the coiling heat in his belly with Ren’s palms locked around his waist. “It doesn’t matter, I— ah, fuck, Ren, let me move.”  
 

Ren’s hold on him tightens, and Hux actually whimpers. “It matters,” he says.  
 

He looks dazed. Lost.  
 

Suddenly Hux wishes he hadn’t asked.  
 

“Fuck,” he says again, and it comes out more raggedly than he means for it to. He shouldn’t have brought it up, he should have known Ren would make it complicated. “Let me move, forget I said anything—”  
 

“No,” says Ren. “Wait—”  
 

“Forget it.”  
 

“Brendol—”  
 

“Oh, _hells!”  
_  

Something raw and sore cracks, savagely, in his chest.  
 

“You want to talk?” he hisses, his nails cutting crescents into Ren’s chest, “Fine, we’ll fucking talk— we’ll have a lovely fucking heart-to-heart after this, now will you let me get off?”  
 

Ren’s jaw clenches.  
 

Then he flips them, abruptly. He tosses Hux down on his back and braces himself over him, inside him, one hand pinning Hux to the mattress and the other gripping his cock, and he pumps his hand relentlessly, angrily, until Hux cries out and shudders, and comes, messy, gasping, hating him, hating him.  
 

He pulls out roughly. Ignores the way Hux winces. He swings his legs over the side of the bed.  
 

“Clean yourself up and leave,” says Ren.  
 

Hux grits his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes. But his hands are trembling, even as he fights to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “No heart-to-heart, then?”  
 

“There’s nothing to talk about.”  
 

“I’m— sorry I asked, all right?” It rings hollow. Apologies have always soured in his mouth.  
 

Ren gets up and disappears, behind the ‘fresher. There’s a faint hiss as he runs the water, square-shouldered, faced away, smudged behind the glass.  
 

Hux sits there, his heart thudding behind his ribs. He yanks his hands through his hair, presses the heel of his palm against his forehead.  
 

 _I didn’t mean to…  
_  

_Damn it, Ren, don’t be so fucking melodramatic!  
_

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_ _—  
_  

 _Come back to bed._ He strains his mind as hard as he can. _Please. Kylo. Forget it, forget it, come back.  
_  

Ren doesn’t reply.  
 

Hux sees himself out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some fic recs:
> 
> if you're in kylux hell and somehow haven't yet read [children, wake up](http://archiveofourown.org/series/386986) by hollycomb, it's a MUST. it's the lifeblood of this fandom and the sole reason i started shipping kylux. i've cried about this fic, i've had vivid dreams about it. it's one of those pieces that is so good that whoever's writing ep8 has gotta watch out, because i'm highly doubtful that whatever they come up with will be this good.
> 
> [i tell you miserable things after you are asleep](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6226333) by kitseybarbours is one of my all time favorite kylux oneshots. first: actor!ben, lawyer!hux...do i need to explain why this is so fantastic?? but seriously, this fic. there are so many lines that just slam into you. it's a beautiful depiction of how they fit together, dysfunctional and angry and close to perfect.
> 
> [ programmed through](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5651425) by reserve is gorgeous, and heart-wrenchingly sad. canon-based. it'll leave a big fucking hole in your chest but it'll be so worth it-- also, really well written sex. definitely check this one out.
> 
> let me know what your favorite kylux fics are!!! i'm fairly new to the fandom & still looking for more good stuff :)
> 
> [i have a tumblr](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forget the timeline of this movie pls i am paying it no attention at all haha
> 
> also, oh gosh, i'm sure there's a lot of typos in this but. i said i'd update today, so here i am, updating today!!! thank you all so much for reading

_When Ben is nine he tries to lift his father’s ship from its foundations using nothing but his mind.  
_  

 _Luke has told him stories, fantastical narratives behind the fiction of the history he knows, and Ben is starry-eyed with them. When he is nine he still thinks he can be a hero, he wants to swing a laser sword and speak inside of minds and— and lift ships. And see his father smile.  
_  

 _And he does well, at first.  
_  

 _He feels the inches of separation, metal peeling away from earth, and laughs. But then the Falcon creaks and groans, and the floor tips beneath him, and he realizes, oh, he shouldn’t have done it while he was still_ inside—  
 

 _Everything goes sideways. Ben is flung into the wall, the ship thuds back to the ground, hard.  
_  

 _And his father comes running out of the house, his mind a warzone, his blaster in his hand.  
_  

 _The four things Han says, in order, as Ben staggers down from the gangway:  
_  

 _“Damn it, Ben!”  
_  

 _And, “What the hell were you thinking”, as if he hadn’t been; the third is “Don’t you know what you could have done to her”, running his hand frantically along the underside of the ship’s hull.  
_  

 _Then he looks at Ben, still white-faced.  
_  

 _“Are you hurt?” he asks, finally.  
_  

 _Ben shows him the swelling of his wrist.  
_  

 _Han takes him into the house and his mother calls up a medical droid. And thank heavens it’s not broken only sprained; Leia pinches the bridge of her nose to swallow down the uncertainty of her fear, Han stalks out of the room, muttering things, thinking Ben isn’t listening._ _  
_

_The pain wakes him up once during the night, jolting him from his anxious dreams. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from crying and flings the disquiet of his mind through the house to find his father— a faint dark outline next to his mother, his arms around her waist and an old tape in the holo-player. The soft glow of the blue screen illuminates his profile, as Han rests his cheek against the top of her head._   
  


_The faint, fuzzy sound of music and laughter gurgles out from the tape. Neither of them are really watching, not Han, his thoughts messy and disheartened, nor Leia, scrolling through Republic reports on her data-pad.  
_  

 _“Are we doing this right?” says Han, hoarsely. “Am I doing this right?”  
_  

 _Leia doesn’t look up from her work. Her eyes are sad. She runs her fingers through his, and squeezes his hand, and Han sighs.  
_  

 _“You gotta wonder what the hell the kid did it for.”  
_  

 _And Ben thinks, so ask me, Dad, I’m right here.  
_  

 _I’m right here—  
_  

 _No matter how hard he tries, Han can’t seem to hear him._  
  
  
…

  
Hux sees himself out.  
 

Kylo sags back against the wall of the refresher, the water drumming down on his shoulders, scorching. He is still painfully hard, the feeling of being inside of Hux unbearably fresh in his body’s memory. But he can’t bring himself to finish, not with the disgusted regret in Hux’s expression strong in his mind’s eye.  
 

 _Why did he ask? Why did he have to ask?  
_  

Ren stays beneath the too-hot water for another half hour, hoping the answer will be burned into his skin when he at last towels dry.  
 

It isn’t.  
   
  
…

  
He tries to keep out of Hux’s head, after that. In part because Hux has asked him to. Mostly because he believes that if he does look, he won’t like what he’ll find.  
 

It is more difficult than he expects. Hux’s thoughts are resounding. He has been trained in the protection of his mind, of course— but not the projection. Every minute that he is awake, and sometimes even while he is dreaming, he is reaching out, thoughts scattered, radiating from him. Longing to be heard, needing to be needed. Afraid of finding himself insignificant. Replaceable.  
 

Often times he will speak to Ren without even knowing it; there is nothing Ren can do to stop him.  
 

Almost nothing.  
 

(Hux would be more careful, if he was aware of his own broadcasting. He would shackle his thoughts. It would stop, if Ren were to tell him.)  
 

(He doesn’t.)  

  
…

  
They had never gotten along, not in the way that two conspirators should. But now the distance between them grows until Ren can hardly see Hux past it. Their every interaction becomes part of a bitter game: who can cut the deepest, who can dole out the most hurt. They clash, the way they always have, only there is less remorse, and more venom.  
  


In the past, Ren had expected their feuds to end in a bed, up against a wall, Hux’s fingers in his mouth, his thigh between Hux’s legs. Now he thinks that Hux will be lucky, to live to see his Starkiller finished.  
 

(Not that he would ever hurt him.)  
 

(Not that he would _mean_ to.)  
 

They are on the _Finalizer’s_ bridge. Arguing, pointlessly, about something, butting heads brutally because they have destroyed the only other way they’ve ever manifested the tension between them. Hux is looking at him with his upper lip curled over bared teeth. Hux is looking at him, with the word _weak_ barely restrained in the hollow of his throat—  
 

Ren finds himself viciously determined to prove him wrong.  
 

He has never forced anything from Hux before. He has never found it necessary. It isn’t, really, even now; he does it anyway, resolved to level out the playing field of their constant hostility— because Hux is smooth-voiced and silver-tongued and always seems to have the sharpest reply at hand where Kylo stutters, and flushes beneath his mask, desperate to validate the power he claims so often to hold over him, a power that Hux will never be able to match, no matter how easily his words are spun.  
 

He rips into Hux’s mind.  
 

He surges forward and takes hold of the first open wound he finds: the stinging echo of fists. Blood, bruise. Purple-blue galaxies spread across Hux’s neck, beneath raw, hateful young eyes. A man’s voice, deep, and angry—  
 

 _Damn it, boy!  
_  

 _He’s done something stupid. Said the wrong thing, at the wrong time, in front of the wrong person. Hux concentrates on the faint whistle of air he can suck in through his nose, standard procedure, and his mother’s voice far away, tearful, her soothing, slender hand stretching toward him after everything’s said and done, turning his cheek toward her—  
_  

 _Your father didn’t mean to hurt you.  
_  

Ren twists the memory heartlessly, drags it to the forefront of Hux’s mind.  
 

 _Your father didn’t mean to—  
_  

 _NO,_ says Hux, horrified.  
 

The backlash is immediate; the word is a thunderclap. Revulsion pours out of him so thickly that Ren stumbles, instinctively, out of his head, the magnitude of Hux’s panic stunning him enough that he actually has to wait a moment for his vision to clear.  
 

When he manages to blink the fog from his eyes, Hux is still staring at him.  
 

“No,” says Hux, out loud this time. His face is bloodless, his lips thin, unstable fury in his eyes. “Don’t you— don’t you dare take that from me.”  
 

And then shakily, wordlessly, unconsciously aimed toward him, _I thought— hells, I thought he would know better. Of all people— gods, he should know better, doesn’t he know—?  
_  

He jerks away and Ren pauses, expecting to feel a kind of triumph, or smug satisfaction— after all, it is typically Ren fleeing the scene, and Hux watching him go.  
 

The falter in the general’s step haunts him long after he is out of sight.  
 

The victorious feeling does not come.    
  
  
…  
  


Snoke must know, he thinks.  
 

The Supreme Leader is the most powerful Force-user Ren has ever encountered, stronger than anyone Ben had known, before his death. It is impossible to hide anything from him; Kylo has always known that in the face of Snoke’s will he is defenseless, naked. His master must know of the conflict— _the coupling—_ between his general and his apprentice.  
 

But admittedly— Ren is not a Jedi. It is not forbidden for him to have attachments, to have wants and desires. To crave power. Greatness. Companionship, sex.  
 

 _Love,_ Ren thinks, bitterly, the thought souring like bile. _Do you love me.  
_  

“Focus, child,” Snoke scolds, from his holo-throne. “Your mind must be clear, if you're to carry through with what you know you must.”  
 

Ren bows his head from where he kneels before him, and breathes deep. “Yes, Master.”  
 

“We ought to begin again,” Snoke muses, his hands curling in his lap. “This challenge will be your greatest yet, Kylo Ren, but you have yet to learn to harness the potential of the darkness within you. Bare yourself to me, and I will show you your true path, what must be done.”  
  
  
…  
  
  
 _In the depths of Ren’s mind he stands in the house Ben had grown up in. Han Solo faces him. Looking at him.  
_  

 _Looking past him.  
_  

 _As if Kylo is not even there.  
_  

 _His saber is in his hand. He ignites it, drives it up and forward, brutally. The blade buries itself in Ben’s father’s chest and still, Han stares straight through him, straight through.  
_  

 _I’m right here, says Ben, crying, Kylo, screaming. Here, do you see me?  
_  

 _I’m right here.  
_  

 _Why won’t you look at me?_  
  
…  
  
  
He does not go to the Starkiller’s commencement but he watches, casting his mind out to the surface until he can see the stage, the banners, Hux. Clearly. The general’s clean-cut figure stands stark and fearless between the crimson flags of his army. His silver tongue works its magic. The white-armored stormtroopers give their salute and on the platform, Hux’s eyes blaze.  
 

The lasers twist out into space like vines, burning red. And then it is the planets burning. And it is the sky that is red, red like Hux’s hate, and Hux’s hunger.  
  

He wonders what it would be like, to watch the execution of Hux’s genius with him. To stand at his side while he speaks to control and conquer. He imagines their army bending to them both. Chaos astride order. Bringing the galaxy to heel, hand in glove, the two of them speaking with one voice.  
 

Unable to restrain himself, he reaches out, and finds Hux—  
 

Staggering to the back of the stage, away from the eyes of the Order, his head in his hands.  
 

 _My life’s work in front of me,_ Hux is thinking, trembling. _And all I can think about is—  
_  

 _Me,_ realizes Ren.  
 

And then, to Hux directly:  
 

 _You’re thinking of me.  
_  

He feels Hux startle, hears him curse. But he’s grown more resilient— to Ren’s telepathy, to the smudged lines between them— and he recovers fast, snarls back. _Fuck you, Ren. What have I told you about—  
_  

 _Hux,_ says Ren. He can feel his pulse, drumming in the hollow of his throat. _You were terrifying. You were— breathtaking.  
_  

 _And?_ snaps Hux.  
 

But Ren hears it, what he craves to hear Ren say, and so despite his better judgement and the trial of time against them he says it, says—  
 

 _Meet me.  
_  

Hux’s helpless, giddy relief hits Ren like the echo of an ocean wave. _I— oh, hells—  
_  

 _My quarters,_ says Ren. _Meet me—  
_  

And Hux says, _Yes._    
  
  
He stays wretchedly pressed into his mind, until Hux is off the shuttle and at his door.  _I looked for you,_ Hux tells him, striding through the _Finalizer’s_ halls. His hands are sweating. Kylo can feel his heart, racing as fast as his own.  
  


He had, he had looked for him. In the crowd, among the officers, scanning for Ren’s awkward, peculiar face, his gangly, hard-planed shape—  
 

 _Where were you?  
_  

 _It was your hour,_ says Ren. _Your success.  
_  

_Ren—_   
  


_You didn’t want me there.  
_  

 _No_ — The door to Ren’s quarters slides open and Ren gets to his feet and Hux is there in the entry looking at him exasperated and impatient and flustered, _I wanted you,_ “I wanted you there—”  
 

It has been three weeks but it feels like it has been a decade, Hux’s teeth snag Ren’s lower lip and Ren makes a too-soft sound, pained. His hands tangle in Hux’s hair, pulling him closer.  
 

 _I wish I could tear you apart,_ says Ren.  
 

 _So why don’t you,_ answers Hux.  
  
  
…  
  
  
It is only when he gets him in his bed that the frantic weight of Hux’s thoughts settle, slamming into Ren as Ren’s mouth slides hot and wet over his cock. His eyes are squeezed shut. He is thinking that if he opens them, the world will fall surely away, crumbling like the very ashes of the Republic he has razed.  
  


 _What is this,_ he asks, weakly, his fingers twining into the sheets. _Gods, Ren. What are we doing?  
_  

 _What we want to,_ Ren replies, boldly, looking up through his lashes, watching the way Hux shudders. _Or do you want me to stop?_    
 

Hux’s body arcs. His eyes flicker open, pale and wired. “No,” he gasps, his thoughts blurring, almost as incoherent as the words that break between. _Ren. Ren, Ren—  
_  

He finishes embarrassingly quickly, without an ounce of self-control. He spills hot, mortified, one arm thrown over his eyes, whimpering and bucking into Ren’s throat. And as soon as he lets Hux’s cock slip from his mouth Ren feels the immediate pull of his longing like it is his own: how he wants to curl up beneath Ren’s arm, and put his head on Ren’s chest, how he wants Ren’s hand to sweep slow paths up and down his back.  
 

How he wants to fall asleep like that. Held. Protected. Bathed in the deep violet afterglow of the slaughter, his victory.  
 

Hux scrambles up on his knees, still panting, the tips of his ears beet-red. He reaches for Ren; Ren goes willingly, readily, hoping—  
 

But all Hux does is wrap his fist around Ren’s dick, and avoid his eyes.  
 

And Ren comes just as hurriedly, just as ashamed, his heart knocking against his ribs, his nose buried in the crook of Hux’s neck.   
  
  
…  
  
  
“Thank you,” says Hux, after Ren has cleaned them both up. He already has his boots on again. He is rolling up his shirtsleeves. “For your— time.”  
 

“Of course.” Ren’s words seem to stick to the walls of his throat. “And congratulations, on the performance of your weapon.”  
 

Hux adjusts his coat. He is a different person, Ren thinks, with it on. “The First Order will rise quickly, now that we have revealed the magnitude of our power,” he says.  
 

They are words that don’t belong, not here and now. And as Hux moves away Ren observes something else, creeping into the corners of his conscious, an immense, dizzying rush of dread. Not a premonition, just a— a feeling. That he needs to make Hux stay. Or say something, to keep him from crossing the threshold.  
 

It feels, absurdly enough, as if they’ll never meet again.  
 

Hux’s expression is hollow. He lingers just outside the hallway, one hand braced against the frame.  
 

“I wish you luck,” he says tightly.  
 

“The same to you,” replies Ren.  
 

The door hisses shut between them and they let it.  
  
  
…  
  
  
Ren meets Han Solo within the cavernous emptiness of the bridge. He drives the saber through Solo’s chest and it goes easily. He watches as his mouth sags, and his face blanches, and he feels nothing.  
 

Solo reaches out, scarlet light, scarlet blood. The tips of his fingers ghost over Ben’s cheek. He stares straight through Kylo.  
 

And the light Ren hates so much leaves his eyes at last, as he falls away.  
 

Outside the snow has begun to fall, drifting past the atmosphere’s thick clouds, settling in Ren’s hair. He pauses, predatory, sensing the fear of the scavenger girl. The anger of the traitor, that had stood beside her. The pain in his abdomen. The blood dripping from his side. He is too far away to feel the touch of Hux’s mind.  
  
  
It doesn’t matter. He moves through the snow and makes no sound. His heartbeat pulses in his chest and the bloodstain creeps over his hip but he is not human. He feels nothing.  
 

There is a faint sensation of wetness on his cheeks, and his hands jump to his eyes, aghast— but to his relief, it’s only the snow. Melting in his hair. Running little rivers down his temple.  
 

He looks inward.  
 

He feels nothing.  
  


He feels nothing.  
  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one last thing ;;;
> 
> after getting into some fairly nasty discourse with ppl both on twitter and tumblr, i feel like i need to say this: whether or not han and leia meant to raise ben the wrong way doesn’t matter. what does matter is that both jj abrams and adam driver have confirmed that they neglected/abandoned ben for their work, and really fucked up somewhere down the line. the transformation of ben solo into kylo ren was most definitely influenced by the way that he was brought up.
> 
> han and leia failed, ren is the one who chooses to carry the weight of that, lets it dictate everything, _everything_ about him. everybody involved is to blame.
> 
> i know i’m probably preaching to the choir here...but i wanted to put this out there anyway, because i’m so incredibly tired of people arguing that han and leia are blameless, and insisting that kylo ren’s wrongdoings are his alone. i understand that he _is_ responsible for his actions after ben's 'death', and i’m aware that emotional neglect and emotional abuse are two different things, but my point stands: the argument that the abused shouldn’t blame their abusers is the argument that most abusers use, it’s relevant here.
> 
> you can read my extended rant [here](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com/post/142373013247/my-thoughts-below-the-cut-are-on-han-and-leias), i’m done with people beating me down over this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> couldn't stop listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sE_TKkNi9E8), his whole album is one big long kylux playlist

The snow tornados around the escape shuttle, streaking across the windows as they coast slowly through the storm. The frayed, splintering treetops scrape against the hull. Searchlights sweep careful paths over the forest floor.  
 

Hux braces himself in the entryway of the cockpit and watches the pilots bent over the console, tuned in on the scanners, searching methodically for a sign of life. Any sign of life.  
  


 _D_ _amn it, Ren.  
_

He presses the heel of his hand against his eyes and swallows back the weight of his uncertainty. They have— the planet has— five minutes. Maybe less. And then the molten core will swallow them whole— _where are you?_ He calls out, hoping, desperately, to hear Ren projecting back at him, his voice in his head. Hux has— that is, he’s—  
 

He’s missed him there.  
 

There’s a soft _ping_. The scanner has lit up.  
  
  
“You’ve found him?” Hux asks, leaning into the cockpit, his mouth dry.  
 

“We’ll touch down, General,” one of the pilots says, looking up at Hux with quiet, skittish eyes. “There’s a chance that— well. The signal’s very faint, sir.”  
 

“But you _have_ found him? Or can’t you tell?”  
 

The pilots share a look.  
 

“We’ll touch down,” the first says again, and turns away.  
 

Snow drifts rocket up around them like geyser spray as they settle the ship on the planet’s surface. Hux skids down the gangway with his coat flapping out behind him and his heart in his throat, and—  
  
  
And when he sees Ren, he is sure that he is dead.  
  
  
He doesn’t seem to be able to recall many exact details after that.  
 

Scorching heat.  
  
  
Frigid wind.  
 

Dark hair, matted with blood and snow. Ren’s head, cradled in his arms.  
 

“General! General Hux—”  
  


White-plated gloves on his arm.  
 

“Sir, we’ll carry his body.”  
 

 _His body,_ thinks Hux, distantly. If Ren were to wake, at this moment, and see Hux’s face above him— would he pull Hux closer, or push him away? _Ren,_ he says. Out loud? _Ren?  
_  

“Sir, I need you to let go of him.”  
 

Hux blinks. “Yes,” he says, _out loud,_ “of course.”  
 

He pries his grip loose— _or is someone doing it for him_ _—?  
_  

They lift Ren. His head lolls back. His throat is pale and dusted blue with cold.  
 

There is so much red. _Red._ “Ren,” says Hux.  
 

 _Ren, Ren.  
  
_  
...  
  
  
“Acts like he’s never seen blood before,” mutters one of the troopers, as the ground quakes beneath their feet, heaving the Knight up onto the gangway.  
 

“He has,” another answers, quietly. “Just— not his.”  
  
  
...  
  
  
Back on _The_ _Finalizer_ the troopers get him off the stretcher, into the tank. His skin is almost translucent in the eerie glow, tinged blue with bacta and the clinging residue of ice and snow. His face is angled away from Hux but he can see the blood, floating in a thick red halo around his head.  
 

“Is he alive?” asks Hux.  
 

His voice is promptly drowned out by the whirring of the machines, the rapid-fire commands of the doctor, and the team of medical droids. The ship's med-bay is already packed with the wounded they'd managed to pull off of the Starkiller; what’s left of his Order’s personnel squeeze around him to work, jamming him into a corner as they trade Ren’s vitals, numbers, statistics.  
 

Behind them in the bacta tank Ren seems frozen. Drifting limply, like the bones have been ripped from his frame. They’ve fixed a breathing apparatus over his mouth, a tube leading to an oxygen tank coiled through the bacta. Hux wonders if the girl had broken his ribs, in the fight.

  
He tries to remember what his last words had been, to Ren. _Good luck,_ or something like it. Stupid. Stupid, stupid. He didn’t know. He hadn’t known. _Beaten by a desert scavenger and a traitor from our own ranks, fucking hell—  
  
_

He digs his fingernails into his palms as if the pain will stop the thoughts from coming. This shouldn’t be a pressing concern, none of this. If Kylo has indeed been killed— there are other Knights of Ren. Other candidates. Snoke will find another apprentice, one more suited to the task. Somebody more willing to work with Hux, perhaps, and less likely to give him trouble, somebody who will respect him, respect what he’s capable of.  
 

Not anyone who will let Hux press him against the wall of his quarters. Not anyone who will kneel between his legs and take him in his mouth like he is starving, like he is grateful, like he has been wanting to all day. Certainly not anyone who will kiss the way that Ren does, his mouth warm and wide, his hands curled painfully tight in Hux’s hair.  
 

Gentle, when Hux tells him to be rough; rough, when Hux is too gentle.  
 

“Is he alive?” he barks again, less patiently, and this time.  
 

 _Hux.  
_  

Ren’s voice ripples inside of Hux’s head, blissfully familiar.  
 

“Oh,” says Hux.  
  


It presses all the breath out of him; he feels dizzy, suddenly, weak at the knees. He steadies himself against the wall at his back, relieved, now, that the medical staff is too concerned with the Knight’s marred body to pay him any attention.  
 

 _You came back for me.  
_

_Of course,_ he snaps, a raw sort of burning in his chest, _I— of fucking course.  
_  

Ren’s voice is smaller than he’s ever heard it. _Thank you.  
_  

 _Thank your Master, Ren, for fuck’s sake! I wouldn’t have had to do any of this, if you were capable of besting a couple of Resistance amateurs—  
_

_You would have begged him,_ says Ren. _For me.  
_  

 _Shut up!_ A dangerously feeble noise catches, painfully, in Hux’s throat, and he drags his sleeve up over his eyes, the wall behind him the only thing keeping his legs from giving out. _Shut up, shut up—  
_  

And in the same stretch of thought:  


_If he had told me to leave you, Ren, oh hells, I would have sworn to kill him—  
_  

 _Not so loud_ _,_ Ren mumbles. _You’re…so loud, you’re always…  
_  

Hux can feel him fading, his presence ebbing at the corners of his mind, and he strains, as if he can somehow keep him there. _Kylo—  
_  

But he has slipped from Hux’s thoughts entirely.  
  
  
...  
  
  
He stays in the med-bay that night, curls up on a cot he drags to the corner of the room and lies with his back to the wall, facing the tank, the soft, steady glow of the bacta blurring behind his tired eyes. Kylo remains motionless but for the faint rise and fall of his chest, and Hux presses his cheek to the thin mattress and counts his breaths to the sound of the medical droids’ hum, until his eyelids droop heavy, and he falls into an uneasy, unwilling sleep.  
  


He doesn’t dream about the people he’s killed. He doesn’t dream about his father, either. He’s on a stage, the Order’s banners flapping in the breeze behind him. He stands confident, hands pressed neatly behind his back, looking out over—  
 

Nothing.  
 

No one.  
 

His soldiers have vanished, his officers are nowhere to be found. He’s been abandoned and the platform shudders beneath his feet, red fissures splitting the foundations.  
 

Everything he’s built.  
 

 _Falling apart,_ he thinks. _Ren,_ he thinks, _find Ren—  
_  

But Ren is there. With him, already, kneeling toward the back of the stage with his back to Hux, his arms wrapped around himself, his head bent to his chest. He doesn’t look up when Hux calls his name.  
 

 _Ren,_ says Hux again, frantically. The cracks in the ground are widening, fracturing jaggedly toward him. He puts himself between the Knight and the ruins of what had been his Order. Ren will save him, he thinks. If it comes to that. Ren will save him, won’t he, _he must_ —  
 

 _We need to evacuate,_ he says, his voice unsteady, yanking at Ren’s robes, desperately trying to pull him to his feet _. Kylo, we need to leave—  
_  

Ren shrugs off Hux’s hand. Shrinks into himself. Hides his face in the crook of his arm.  
  


And then Hux is slipping away from him, the rock beneath his feet melting away into fiery plasma, and he is free-falling, leaving Ren curled up on the edge above him, still faced away, still indifferent, _please, please, please—  
_  

He wakes gasping, scrambling for solid purchase in the flimsy cot sheets.  
 

The medical droids pause, their steel visors regarding him with an emotionless awareness, before they turn back toward their work. Toward Kylo, his breath rasping through the oxygen mask, muffled by the thick glass of the tank.  
 

Hux pushes himself to his feet, swaying. Suddenly he can’t stand to stay, can’t have his eyes on Kylo’s body for a moment more.  
 

He lurches toward the med-bay door, and tries to shake the feeling that he is fleeing from something.   
  
  
…  
  
  
Ren is released, three days later.  
 

Hux does not seek him out.  
 

He’s occupied; he has work. To his remaining officers, the troopers, the Order. Appearances are everything. The appearance of control. That’s what is important, now. The illusion, that he knows what he’s doing,  _w_ _hat is he doing?  
_

The Starkiller’s destruction was not his fault alone but Snoke, he’s sure, could care less. He has failed not only in the eyes of the Resistance but in the eyes of his own force. What good is he, anymore? What use is he? How long does he have? Appearances, he thinks, and gets up at the same time, every morning, and schedules rendezvous with straggling survivors, and looks over proposed propaganda designs, and throws up his breakfast after every meeting, and desperately tries to keep it together without looking desperate. As if this was the plan, all along, to lose their greatest asset. Right on schedule.  
 

The hours of twilight, before he finds sleep, are the hardest. His hands shake with the necessity to work, nothing fills his head but doubt and anger— at himself, at the expanse of the galaxy, at a dark-eyed Knight who he often wishes he had never met, never heard speak in the echoes of his mind.  
 

Because Ren, meanwhile, is nowhere to be found. Locked in his rooms. Refusing to admit anyone.  
 

Not that Hux has tried.  


He feels stretched too thin. The smoke of Starkiller is still thick in his mouth, his eyes. The memory of Ren’s blood is hot under his skin. _Hells._ Hux doesn’t want to be anywhere near Ren. Not after he’d seen—  
 

And Ren had said—  
 

 _You would have begged him—  
_  

He wants to slam Starkiller back together with his own two hands, just to turn it on himself.  
 

He removes his hat with shaking hands. Smooths over his hair, readjusts his coat. He is the centerpiece of change— he has to remind himself. He has been, from the day the Order had been placed in his hands, from the moment he had looked into the mirror and repeated the title, _General,_ again and again, watching his eyes flash, wanting to raise his father from the grave, just so he could see him, now, standing with an army at his beck and call.  
 

There had been a time, however brief, where he had thought— maybe Ren could have stood next to him, all of space and time beneath their feet.  
 

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he thinks, _not anymore, let him hide,_ he thinks, _I hope he’s listening,_ he thinks, _Ren—  
_

_Please, are you listening?  
_  

And he wears a little thinner.  
  
  
…  
  
  
In the training room he stretches sore, tired muscles, stiff with sleepless nights, shaky from running off of caf and cold showers. He can’t hear the whispers that he knows are being exchanged behind his back but he can feel the eyes on him: cautious, nervous.  
 

 _They know you’ve failed.  
_  

He gets to his feet, straining to force the air of casualty but half-expecting his crew to turn tail and run when he casts his glance over the room. Maybe, he thinks, they’ve already begun conspiring to mutiny. _  
  
_

That’s enough. He’s being paranoid. His mouth twists, a half-grimace discarding the idea from his head. He rolls his shoulders, starts toward the practice ring.  
  


Phasma is leaning against the ropes, smoking a cigarette, watching as two of the troopers box and bait. Her eyebrows inch up as he joins her, looking him over with an incredulous eye. “You look like shit,” she says.  
 

“You don’t look much better."  
 

She smiles. It’s true. There’s a rumor going around that the traitor dumped her in a trash compactor. She hasn’t denied it, yet, but no one— Hux included— is about to flat-out ask. “At least neither of us are hiding,” Phasma says, and blows smoke out of the corner of her mouth. “Have you seen him?”  
 

“Not since the med-bay,” Hux says, sharply.  
 

“He’d better get his act together.” Phasma appraises him coolly, as if it's his fault. “The longer he shuts himself up, the more they’ll talk.”  
 

And there’s nothing more dangerous than an absent leader, and an uneasy crew.  
 

One of the troopers in the ring has managed to get their partner pinned down beneath their knee; the partner taps out, and they roll away from each other, grinning, breathing hard. Phasma sets her cigarette at the corner of her lips and claps, twice. “Clean yourselves up, get the next set ready.” She looks at Hux, sideways. “You want in? Might do you some good, to unwind.”  
 

Hux considers. Wonders, whether the captain blames him, for the Starkiller loss. He’s always respected her. The idea that he may have lost whatever respect she’d held for him is a distasteful thought.  
 

 _Yes, well, you’re chock full of those, lately.  
_

“Why not,” he says, and ducks under the ropes.  
 

The trooper’s designated number is TR-735. Hux wouldn’t know it if it wasn’t printed on the training tank he’s already sweating under.  
 

“Relax,” says Phasma, who’s noticed this, too. “It’s just another match.”  
 

“Against the general,” mutters another trainee from outside the ring; there’s a few of them congregating to watch. “Good fucking luck.”  
 

735 is bouncing on his heels. His eyes are quick and nervous. “Don’t go easy on me,” he says.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” says Hux.  
 

He’s not a master of hand-to-hand combat and he's not well-built, not like Ren and Phasma. But he knows his way around, well enough. They dance in and out of each other’s reach, trading curious blows, finding each other’s rhythm, pace. Hux gets in a few solid hits but doesn’t do much damage; the trooper, on the other hand, has already caught Hux off-guard enough to graze the side of his skull— he manages to twist out of the way enough to stay on his feet, but his ear is ringing.  
 

The number of troopers looking on have doubled in size and Phasma looks pleased, when she calls for a break. “How’s it feeling?” she asks. There’s something smug in her expression.  
 

“Fine,” Hux snaps, snatching up a towel and wiping angrily at his forehead.  
 

He’s forgotten how tiring this is. How frustrating. Even just practice. The near-misses are grating on him; he wants the satisfaction of a collision, badly, he’s itching for it. He throws down the sweat-damp towel, exhales sharply out of his nose.  
 

"Again," he barks, gesturing sharply. "Come on."   
 

735 puts up his fists dutifully.  
 

And Hux, feeling hateful and unforgiving, feints. Then kicks his feet out from underneath him, and, as he slips, strikes out with a hook.  
 

He follows him down, pinning him to the matt, forearm across his windpipe. The trooper's legs buck and kick, trying to throw him as he struggles to breathe, but Hux holds him fast. It's another minute before 735 relents, wincing, and taps out with one hand. The other is quickly held up in worn surrender. “All right,” he says, wheezing a laugh, scrambling back and scraping himself to his feet when Hux releases him. “I’m finished. Good rou—”  
 

As soon as he’s standing Hux swings again.  
 

His fist connects satisfyingly hard with the trooper’s jaw. There’s a crack to prove it. 735 drops instantly, going down like a sack of portion bread **.** From the floor he lets out a startled, cracked shout, curling into himself, hands flying up over his hand.  
 

“I tapped out!” he cries, as Hux circles him, scrambling back, “I tapped—”  
 

The heel of Hux’s foot slams down on the soft flesh of his belly.  
 

“I tapped—”  
 

He kicks him again, in the ribs. “Get up,” he says, panting, cold-eyed.  
 

735 staggers to his feet. His hands are held up in shaking surrender and his voice is bubbling out in wheezing gasps, “Please, please don’t—”  
 

His nose breaks under Hux’s fist. Blood squirts, and Hux feels it warm on his fingers. He catches the front of the trooper’s shirt, to keep him from falling. He holds him up. Hits him. He’s stopped crying out. _Hit him again.  
_

_Again.  
_

_Again.  
_  

By the time he’s done the trooper is almost unrecognizable. He’s still breathing but there’s blood all over the ring. On Hux’s boots. He’ll need to have them cleaned.  
 

The training room is silent, as he turns, and ducks out from the ropes. The gathered troopers are pale-faced. Phasma draws slowly on the end of her cigarette.  
 

“Unwind,” she calls out to his retreating back, as 735 is swarmed by his squad, as he’s carried off the ring, as someone calls for a med-droid. “I said _unwind._ Not unhinge.”  
 

Hux thinks, _what’s the difference.  
  
  
_ …  
  
  
He isn’t supposed to have access to Ren’s quarters. He’s expecting to have to override limited admittance, or hack through, or blow the fucking door open if he needs to, “Hux,” he snaps at the interface, “Brendol—”  
 

The doors open.  
 

The room has a pungent, stale smell to it. It’s dark, almost pitch-black, and his eyes are slow to adjust, lingering in the entrance. He makes out the soft light of the fresher. The closet panel. Ren’s bed, and finally, the stiff, lanky figure, curled up in it.  
 

“Ren,” says Hux. He is still breathing hard, the adrenaline of the fight still pulsing through his veins— he feels dangerously undone. He isn’t thinking, he’s just moving, striding toward the bed. “ _Ren.”  
_  

“What do you need,” says Ren. His voice is unused, and hoarse. He hasn’t moved, and doesn’t, even as Hux reaches his bedside.  
 

“Are you serious?” Hux snarls. “What’s the matter with you? Is this how you think you’ll present yourself to your master? Stinking, filthy, wearing nothing but your fucking nightclothes—”  
 

Ren turns over, and Hux feels the words fly out of his head.  
 

He looks awful. His lips are cracked and dry, his eyes sunken, exhausted. He is breathing slowly, like it hurts. Like his ribs are still broken. Hux knows better and still. Despite himself, and everything. He wants to slide his hands around his chest, just to make sure.  
 

“I killed Han Solo,” Ren says, not looking at Hux. “I put my saber through his chest.”  
 

“Fine,” manages Hux.  
 

“I destroyed him. There isn’t even a body.”  
 

“What do you want, a fucking medal?”  
 

“Hux.” His name cracks in Ren’s mouth and Ren turns away, hunches up, closes his eyes.  
 

“So you feel pain,” Hux says, “congratulations, welcome to the human race—”  
 

“I’m not human,” says Ren.  
 

Hux throws up his hands. “For _fuck’s_ sake! You killed your father, what the hell did you think would happen?”  
 

“He wasn’t my father.”  
 

“Ren—”  
 

“It doesn’t matter.” Ren pulls up the blanket, shielding himself from Hux's eyes. “What do you care.”  
 

“Read my _fucking_ mind!” Hux shouts, patience snapping, and then he is sending it, everything, at Ren with all the strength he has, his outrage, the sickness shredding in his chest, the fear, oh gods, he’s afraid, _for the first time—  
_

_You’re scaring me, what are you doing, don’t you know— I need you, not in a bed or between my legs but at my side did you know— I beat a man half to death on the way here and his blood didn’t feel like your blood but the numbness was the same, I’m numb, I feel numb and I need you—don’t you need me?  
_  

 _I asked if you loved me, Ren, damn it— I asked—  
_  

Ren blinks up at him, mouth half-open.  
 

“Fuck,” says Hux. He’s trembling. “Fucking— did you honestly think—”  
 

 _Please,_ and Ren whimpers, reaching for him as the wetness in his eyes threatens to spill over his cheeks. Hux doesn’t need to be able to read his mind to know what he wants— to hold onto Hux like he is the only thing keeping him grounded. To feel Hux’s arms holding up him.  
 

He wants Hux to let him be weak.  
 

No, decides Hux, for the both of them.  
 

He bunches the ends of the blankets piled over Ren in his fists and pulls them, in one quick, smooth movement, from the bed. Bared to the open air Kylo shudders, fumbles blindly for their warmth. He doesn’t try to use the Force. He doesn’t even reach for his saber.  
 

Hux sighs, tosses the quilts aside. “Get up.”  
 

Ren turns over wordlessly. He draws his knees up to his chest and buries his face in his pillow.  


Hux takes the pillow away, too.  


“Hux,” says Ren, splotchy-faced, shivering.  
 

“Do you want me drag you out by your legs?”  
 

That gets his attention. His brow draws together tightly at the prospect of that humiliation; to Hux’s relief he’s retained enough dignity to scrape himself to the edge of the bed, planting stubborn, unsteady feet on the floor. He doesn’t go willingly but he doesn’t protest, either, when Hux gets him to his feet. He lets himself be pushed and pulled, led to the refresher, watches motionlessly as Hux adjusts the pressure and temp before he turns to strip Ren down.  


It’s methodical. Processed. Socks first, Hux lifting one foot at a time, stripping the grimy things off. Pants, down, off, he’s not wearing underclothes, which makes it easier. Shirt, off— Ren has to raise his arms for that, which takes a bit of prodding. But then he’s bare and Hux takes him by the shoulders, and settles him under the hot water.  
 

Then he strips down, too.  
 

“What are you doing,” says Ren, water dripping in his eyes.  
 

It’s too dull to really be a question. There is a dim, confused look on his face, as Hux steps in the fresher behind him.  
 

“Hux,” he says, blearily, as Hux reaches for a bar of soap. “What are you—”  
 

“No questions,” says Hux.  
 

With his clothes off, Ren still remembers how to obey.  
 

Hux soaps away the smell and the grime of the three days past, rubs the lather slowly into Kylo’s chest, and arms. He turns him and works the soap into his back, satisfied only when Ren’s head drops forward, when he leans back into Hux’s touch, a helpless, breathy noise coaxed from his throat as the steam curls over his skin, and Hux’s hands press relief into his aching, sore muscles.  
 

“Face me,” he says, and Ren does.  
 

Hux combs the wet strands of hair away from his forehead with both hands, lingering to cup his face in his hands for just a moment before he turns to sort through the small shampoo bottles lining the fresher shelf. He is careful washing his hair, remembering the blood that had strung it together on Starkiller. His gaze falls back on the scar: cut jaggedly across Ren’s cheek, trailing to his jaw. Ren’s eyelids flutter shut when Hux runs his thumb along the edge.  
 

 _Gods, Ren. I don’t understand how—  
_  

“No,” says Ren hopelessly, his eyes still closed, suds clinging to his temple. “I failed. Just tell me that I failed.”  
 

His fingers slide up into his hair again to massage slowly over his scalp. “The failure was on both our parts, respectively.”  
 

“But—” says Ren, then looks away. “Everything you worked for. I let it be destroyed by a— an untrained scavenger girl.”  
 

Hux makes an absentminded noise of agreement, his hands still in Ren’s hair. “Turn around,” he says. “I’ll finish up with you.”  


Ren stares at him with something like disbelief. But he does as he’s told and without pause Hux reaches around his hip, and takes Ren’s cock in his palm.  
 

Ren’s breath catches at the touch, his body shuddering against Hux’s automatically.  
 

“There,” says Hux softly, stroking him hard and slow, the way he likes it, his mouth pressed against Ren’s ear. “There, I’ve got you. Don’t be afraid.”  
 

“Never,” answers Ren, raggedly, sagging against him, his legs trembling. _I— Hux. Oh, Hux.  
_  

 _So much trouble,_ Hux thinks, his free hand playing over Ren’s belly, pinning him back to Hux’s chest. _So much blood. How do you think you’ll redeem yourself, Ren, for all that pain?  
_

_I can’t._ _I won’t._ Ren’s body jerks, a pleading, half-swallowed sound breaking from his mouth, and in response Hux speeds up the rhythm of his hand.  
 

 _Good, Kylo. Tell me why.  
_  

 _Because I don’t want to._ Ren’s voice inside of his mind is obedient and steady but he is gasping, moaning high and fluting, reaching back to grip Hux’s hips behind him, digging his nails into Hux’s skin. _Because— it would kill me, to feel that guilt, and, and I refuse—  
  
_

_To what?  
_

_To die.  
_

"Very good," Hux murmurs, and leans forward to take Ren’s earlobe between his teeth, to tug, sharply. _I refuse to let you.  
_  

Ren shudders, and cries out, and spills over Hux’s fist, flooding Hux’s mind with sweetness: _fuck,_ and _Hux,_ and _thank you. Thank you_.  
 

It is easier to coax him out from under the fresher than it was to lead him in. Once he has Ren beneath the sheets he runs his fingers through his hair until it begins to dry beneath his touch, and Ren’s eyes are half-closed, and heavy.  
 

 _I love you,_ mumbles Ren, fighting to keep his eyes open. He reaches, drowsily, to take Hux’s hand, and makes a quiet, relieved noise when Hux lets him— a soft sound that works its way into Hux’s chest and splinters there _. You asked, Brendol. I do.  
_

“Go to sleep,” replies Hux, as if he hasn’t heard.  
 

But he climbs beneath the covers beside him, and when Ren wraps his arms around him, he presses his head to Ren’s chest, and counts his heartbeats with the same steadiness that he had counted every breath.  
  
  
…  
  
  
“Your father,” Hux says, at some point during the night.  
 

The two of them have drifted in and out of consciousness for hours, stirring in each other’s arms. They both know they are staving off what will happen, come morning. Walking back into their world. Carrying the weight of consequence.  
 

Ren’s hand has been running slow, lazy paths over Hux’s back, with Hux’s head tucked beneath his chin and one of his legs hitched over his waist. The touch vanishes, now, and Hux bites his lip at the loss. “What about him?”  
 

“What was he like?”  
 

Ren rolls away. Still under the covers but turned away from him, the set of his naked, freckled back bared.  
 

“He shouldn’t have had me,” he says at last, his voice half-muffled. “People like him, they aren’t supposed to.”  
 

His voice is deeper, when he’s tired. Rougher. Or maybe it’s just because of Solo. Whatever the reason, Hux scooches closer. “Kylo.”  
 

The knight is still turned away from him, with his mountain of a body. The curve of his back melts away into the pitch black and Hux thinks briefly about calling up the lights, to see him better. He runs his hand down the sloped line of his waist instead, and hears him sigh.  
 

“I did kill him,” Ren says. “For a moment, when I woke up— I thought, maybe I hadn’t. But I did.”  
 

That dullness is back in his voice. Hux hears it, dangerous and toneless. This is only the second time he’s spoken the words out loud and it borders on stunned,  _I killed my father.  
_  

“Ben’s father,” Ren murmurs, distantly.  
 

Hux ghosts his fingers back up his arm, nails blunt against his skin. “Maybe—”  
  


“Hux,” says Ren, looking over at him sharply, a warning.  
 

“Maybe it was Ben, who—”  
 

Ren tenses, lips drawing back against gritted teeth. “No,” he cuts him off, _What the hell would you know about it, anyway, about me—  
_  

“Fucking hell,” Hux snaps, feeling sour; he snatches back his hand, but he’s more sickened than satisfied when Ren curls in on himself. “That’s not what I— you don’t know what I meant.”  
 

Ren is silent, and at first Hux assumes he’s sulking— but then he feels him, the sensation that is familiar, by now, of his presence settling amongst his thoughts.  


_Do you understand?_ Hux thinks, as forcefully as he can, never sure if Ren can hear him. _Perhaps he was meant to be a father, just not yours. That’s all I meant.  
_  

 _Or I wasn’t meant to be his son,_ Ren replies. _He never hurt— he never hurt Ben.  
_

_Maybe he didn’t mean to, Kylo_ _—  
_  

He shakes his head stiffly, shuddering, and Hux reaches out again, to run his palm down the flat of Ren’s throat.  
 

 _There’s more than one way to make a monster. Whose fault is it, if he knew the potential in you, and chose to look the other way?  
_  

“So that’s what you think of me.” _Monster.  
_  

Hux lets out a noise, exasperated, and straddles the big, solid warmth of Ren’s body, kisses him until that absurd, too-wide mouth opens, beneath his own. _Shh,_ he soothes, his breath warm, his thumbs pressed to Ren’s cheeks. _Shh, shh, it’s all right, Ren, I’m one, too.  
_  

Nobody grows up gently; Hux believes this, fiercely.  
 

He also believes that when it comes right down to it, everyone has a choice; you can roll over and take it—  
 

Or you can hide a blaster in the lining of your jacket, for the next time your father thinks about laying his hands on you.  
 

He hadn’t killed him. But he’d held the blaster with steady hands and a ready conscious, and there hadn’t been any beatings after that. He hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t pulled the trigger.  
 

 _I wanted to,_ Hux thinks, pressing his forehead to Ren’s. _Sometimes I still wish I had.  
_  

He can’t read Ren’s mind. No matter how often he’s wished he could. But maybe, somehow, Ren remembers the way Hux’s fingers had slipped over the blood on Kylo’s skin, cradling his head in his lap. Or maybe he remembers the way Solo’s twitching body had looked, impaled on the end of his saber.  
 

 _I’m glad you didn’t,_ says Ren.  
  
  
…  
  
  
There had been a brief time where he had imagined Ren standing next to him, before their Order, with all of space and time beneath their feet, and in the end, he thinks, that’s where they’ve always been.  
 

Where they’ll always be.  
 

Pretending the entire galaxy has done them wrong. Hurting everyone who ever hurt them, and everyone who hasn’t.  _Let’s call it justice,_ says Hux, his voice as soft as his mouth on the nape of Kylo’s neck.  
  


Ren hums.  _Let’s call it revenge.  
_

_Let’s hurt each other,_  Hux says.  _Let's_ _call it love.  
_  

_Let's call it love._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed reading!! this might sound stupid but this ship means a lot to me, if a younger me had known these two he would’ve cried buckets. for a lot of different reasons
> 
> i’m probably going to hell but i don’t mind, i’ll see you all there and we’ll have a lovely time
> 
> ALSO I ALMOST FORGOT!!! ofcorsetstrash has this ben solo/hux fic called [red wolf](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6198154/chapters/14199640) and you should all really read it bc it's so dAMN GOOD i'm PISSING!!! seriously my housemate and i are so obsessed with it i have a quote from it taped to my wall and she quotes it like. most days. so yeah if you're looking for more good stuff, head over there!!
> 
> my tumblr is [here](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com/), + message me if you reblog kylux :) i wanna follow back xxx


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